Diaries of a Dungeon Dwelling Moron
by Gedia Kacela
Summary: The true-life occurances of one Severus S. Snape, sure to bewitch your mind and ensnare your senses.... er, perhaps not. Filled with bitterness, discoveries, and plenty of spite towards the starry-eyed Astrology professor.
1. Muggle Magazines and Cold Showers

Diaries of a Dungeon-Dwelling Moron

Discreet Disclosures of Severus S. Snape

Disclaimer: Snape is not mine, and probably will never be. He, along with everything else, belongs to JKR. The idea for this fic comes from ze brill Nita (She's A Star).

Author's Note: This is a companion piece to Nita's 'Lamentations of a Starry-Eyed Twit.' It inspired me (and Milla *cackles*) and everyone must experience the wonder that it is. Read it. Love it. Repeat.

****

-Part One-

31 August 1991

7:30 p.m.

Chambers Adjacent to Office

Am preparing for the yearly social stressor in this farce called my life. I loathe and despise beginning-of-term staff meetings with every fiber of my being.

The main problem is that they are so damn predictable.

Iolana Hooch will slap me on the back and say 'Evenin', Sunshine.' Albus will shove Muggle sweets down our throats. Flitwick, from his ridiculous perch of pillows, will float tea over to himself in a vain attempt to show off. (You know what they say about vertically challenged individuals. Always trying to make up for their deficiencies. Fortunately, I do not have that problem, as I was 6'2" the last time I checked.) Minerva will purse her lips so tightly that they will be most likely to freeze that way.

And Sinistra, that ridiculous, addled-brain excuse for a teacher, will be a perfect wench.

What fun.

I have given up preparing. There is no way to prepare oneself for such torture. Damn Albus. Voldemort should have thought to use such tactics.

... As an afterthought, I am beginning to wonder if Albus does not have plans to become the next Dark Lord.

****

9:35 p.m.

Sadly enough, I was correct about every aspect of the staff meeting... with one slight alteration. Minerva's face has been frozen in that expression for quite some time.

Sinistra was indeed a wench. She completely over-reacted to my suggestion that her students might learn more if she were not such a starry-eyed twit.

It was a harmless statement, really. She needn't have reacted so vehemently.

The bitch called me a dungeon-dwelling hygienically ignorant moron.

I must admit, a small portion of that is true.

But I am not a hygienically ignorant moron.

Wench.

Anyway.

Quirrell, the new Defense Against the Dark Arts professor, looks as if a slight breeze would fell him. I also now realize, thanks to him, how fully and completely I hate stuttering. By the end of the meeting I had nearly shattered the teacup I was holding. Scalding coffee on one's breeches is not a pleasant thing to end a meeting with.

But really. I doubt the man has the capabilities of a toad. I have more talent in my little finger than he does in his entire, shivering form. Why do I continually get passed over in consideration for this ridiculous position?

Simply because I was a former Death Eater does not mean that I will hex all the students.

Only the Gryffindors.

Honestly. Do people think I have no morals?

Now as for the bother known as Quirrell. Perhaps if he were... indisposed... I would be allowed to substitute for his class. Do you suppose Albus would notice if I accidentally used an Unforgivable on him?

Maybe he'll get lost in the Forbidden Forest.

****

9:40 p.m.

Maybe he'll take Sinistra with him.

Damnable woman.

****

1 September 1991

12:35 p.m.

Office

Can my life get much worse?

As of now, I severely doubt it.

I have just been in Albus' office. I was... looking for him. Yes. And while doing so, I just happened to catch a glance at the first-year roster for the upcoming term. It was just lying out in the open. Well... actually, it was partially under a book. But when I accidentally bumped into the desk, the book moved. And there it was, right where anyone could see it.

Albus really should be cautious of where he leaves his possessions. I should remind him of it at the next staff meeting.

But the important thing remains. As of this year, I shall be submitted to the abominable pleasure of teaching the vile offspring of my former mortal enemy.

Harry Potter, the Boy-Who-Unfortunately-Lived, is coming to Hogwarts.

Why me?

****

12:37 p.m.

Did not know that Albus subscribed to In Style magazine.

****

12:39 p.m.

Did not want to know.

****

10:46 p.m

Somehow, I have found that I forgot to replace one of the Muggle magazines when I had finished perusing the contents of Albus'... roster.

Ah well. It is too late to return it to him now. I can always give it back tomorrow.

Surely it cannot hurt to look through it a bit before bed, can it?

****

11:30 p.m.

I was never aware until now how little clothing Muggle women wear.

Do they not get cold?

Intriguing.

****

11:48 p.m.

I wonder if Albus will notice the bent edges on the magazine?

Either way, I am certainly glad that witches' robes are not so... revealing. It would make one rather uncomfortable in the monthly staff meetings.

I do not even want to imagine Eolande Sprout in any such thing as this... lingerie. The idea is enough to sicken me.

But of course, I am even more disturbed by the thought of that daydreaming stargazer in such attire.

Enough of this. Muggles must be deranged to think such things attractive.

Perhaps I shall take a cold shower before bed. Just... because. I happen to like cold showers.

Goodnight.

****

2:34 a.m.

Cannot sleep. Am plagued by nightmares of Sinistra in something called a 'sundressy.'

I did not enjoy it.

At all.

I wonder if there's any Dreamless Sleep potion left in my supplies. I'm afraid I may have used it all when Hooch's back slap went a bit too low last month.

I hate my life.


	2. Do Journals Qualify for the Restricted S...

Diaries of a Dungeon-Dwelling Moron

__

Discreet Disclosures of Severus S. Snape

Author's Note: Thanks so much for all the wonderful feedback I received on the first part of this story. Now that Nita has uploaded the second installment of her story, I must write more! In case any of you have not read the story that this is a companion to, Lamentations of a Starry-Eyed Twit, by She's a Star, you can find it below.

http://www.fanfiction.net/read.php?storyid=1216603

By the way, I thought I'd mention that the name Auriga belongs to Nita and comes from JKR's original name for Sinistra. 

On with the story, shall we?

****

-Part Two-

2 September 1991

1:02 p.m.

Classroom

Today has started out rather well, I must admit, all things considered. It was the first day of classes and while I was in the middle of my beginning of term speech (which is a classic, if I do say so myself), I spotted _him_. Of course, he was not paying attention. Or perhaps he was taking notes. But who really cares?

I made it my intense delight to humiliate him completely.

That should teach him to be the son of my worst enemy.

Stupid git. Had to go off and get himself killed by Voldemort.

If he was all that desperate to go, I gladly would have helped him. Then again, I would have made it slow. And painful. Very painful. Then I might have paid him back for turning my hair pink in fifth year.

Damn the luck.

Hmm... perhaps I'm being insensitive. After all, he and his wife were killed, an attempt was made on their child's life, and now Potter is left an orphan, growing up with his aunt and uncle, all alone. Maybe I am just taking a childhood grudge too far.

...

Nah.

Bloody hell, I'll never forgive Albus for tricking me into seeing that... psychiatrist ten years ago. Never. He told me I was bitter and vindictive, that I hadn't gotten enough love as a child.

Bugger off is what I told him. I told him that I was misunderstood. Yes. Misunderstood. That's what I am.

Blast it all, now all the glory of belittling Potter has worn off. Now, there's only one thing to do... deduct points from Gryffindor.

I wonder where Potter is...

****

6:28 p.m.

I saw that insolent boy Longbottom's runaway toad after dinner today. Tried to step on it.

Unfortunately, the oaf of a gamekeeper came around the corner and nearly caught me in the act. Sneered at him and swept off menacingly.

Why must everyone spoil my fun?

****

3 September 1991

10:30 a.m.

Chambers

Bitch!

How dare she?!

Of all the dim-witted, brainless, stupid wenches in this school, I must choose to speak to the one with the anger-management problems. 

****

10:32 a.m.

Damn her.

Damn her and her coffee.

Damn her and her coffee and her coffeemug.

Damn the fact that these were new robes. And her. And the fact that the House-Elves don't do laundry until tomorrow.

Damn her.

Damn damn damn damn.

****

10:36 a.m.

I am not an overgrown bat. She has no right to call me as such.

I am that as much that as she is a Veela.

Which she is most decidedly not.

Ha! Auriga, the Veela. The very idea makes me want to laugh... or at least, I would if my head were not throbbing from her blatant assault.

I now have a bump on my head from where that unbearable witch threw a COFFEMUG at me. A coffeemug! Simply because I told her that she wasn't quite looking her best today. Well, perhaps I did not quite put it that way. Let me see... what did I say? I merely said that while she was normally not quite Veela-material, today she would make Hagrid look attractive. I meant it as a compliment, you know. I could have said she made a troll look attractive. Though I am not really certain where the distinction lies between a troll and our groundskeeper. But my intentions were... oh, nevermind.

But of all things to throw at one's fellow professor... a coffeemug. At least I have the common decency to merely throw insults. Those don't hurt like a... coffeemug.

Not that the wretched creature has feelings.

Because I am quite sure that she does not.

Not that I would care if she did.

Because I don't.

Anyway.

Double Potions next. Oh, goody.

****

1:50 p.m.

Nothing cheers the spirit like making first-years cry.

Who ever said Hufflepuffs weren't good for anything?

And I do believe that I just set a new record for deducting points in the span of one class period. Maybe they'll give me a plaque for a change. I might have to bring the idea up with Albus.

Even Minerva, with her prudish ways, could not rival me for plain, downright cruelty. She's far too Gryffindor for that. It makes me sick.

Of course, that might be due to the pumpkin juice I drank at lunch. Thinking back, I remember those damned twins lurking around the Head Table.

Ugh...

****

2:15 p.m.

I'll get them one day.

I swear.

... Once I cease emptying the contents of my stomach.

****

2:50 p.m.

They will pay.

So will Sinistra, as I am positive that she is somehow behind all of this. She is out to ruin my life.

Well, I've got news for her.

It's been ruined for quite some time.

So ha.

****

3:15 p.m.

I must stop by the library and inform Irma that she is not to allow the Weasley twins access to any texts involving potions, poisons, or anything that could remotely be considered hazardous in their hands. Maybe I should simply have them banned from the library completely. Not that it would do much good. Irma seems to think that they are 'cute and harmless.'

It figures. She will hardly let me into the Restricted Section and still insists, after twelve years, that I address her as 'Madame Pince,' but she allows those reckless twin menaces to call her 'Irmy' and prance around the Restricted Section at their leisure.

I'm not bitter.

****

4:18 p.m.

Office

This has been one of the most fulfilling moments in my life. It even rivals the day I heard that Black's sorry arse was thrown in Azkaban. I will remind her of this day for the rest of my life. Let her throw all the coffeemugs she wants to at me. I wouldn't care.

Auriga Sinistra, in the library, asleep, with her head in a book. Drooling, even.

And not just any book... her journal.

Which I might add is far more juvenile than the unbiased, accurate records I keep of my own life. She was arguing over the spelling of the word 'star.' Great Merlin... I sometimes wonder how idiotic one must be to become a professor here. Am I the only one actually qualified for my position? She did not even know how to spell _constallatian_.

Silly wench.

But not only did I find her asleep in her journal discussing the inaccurate spellings of astrological terminology, but she was talking. In her sleep.

About me.

It was grand... wait, not like that. Not in the way that I enjoyed it in a sexual manner.

Ew.

No, no. I meant in the way that I have new methods to torture her with. The Veela comments were getting old. Plus the fact that I do not enjoy getting told to 'fuck off' at 9 in the morning.

Though from her journal entries, I got the distinct impression that she completely enjoyed attempting to murder me with breakfast dishes. What will it be next, a muffin? I do hope not.

I hate muffins.

4:32 p.m.

Why did I put my arm around her when walking her out of the library?

...?

Oh. Right. To make her feel even more uncomfortable. Because that is what I do best. Along with the smirks and little jabs I shot at her. It was great, really. "Do attempt to stay awake, Auriga. Perhaps thinking happy thoughts will help."

Ha. That was great.

Yes. Humiliation was the point. And it worked marvelously. Her cheeks were practically aflame with embarrassment.

It was different to see her with such colour... no, I did not enjoy it. It was just... different.

Where was I?

Right. It was disgusting. I touched her. Her waist. My hand touched... her waist.

I must not have been thinking right. Yes. That's it. I was too distracted by the prospect of bringing this little incident up as often as possible. I was not thinking at all about her. Not at all. And I'm not now either.

Her robe was strangely... soft.

I did not just say that.

4:36 p.m.

I touched her.

I think I must be diseased now.

Shower time.


	3. Destiny's Fated Iridescent Insomnia

Diaries of a Dungeon-Dwelling Moron

__

Discreet Disclosures of Severus S. Snape

Author's Note: Thanks once again to all the dahlings who have so graciously reviewed this little fic. Glad to know that you all are enjoying reading it as much as I am enjoying writing it. And believe me, Snape torture is great fun.

Just a note. Destiny du Maurier belongs to the absolutely brilliant Milla (drama-princess). Haven't gotten enough Snape/Sinistra-ness here? Then go read her fabulously hilarious story Family Matters.

****

-Part Three-

4 September 1991

4:34 a.m.

Office

Sometimes I wonder why I waste my life thus... spending each day in dreadful monotony, teaching dimwits that could never tell the difference between wormwood and wormroot, nor would they care to tell, 'playing nice' with coworkers I despise, being hit upon by flying instructors, restraining myself from murdering Potter in his bed, being assaulted with coffeemugs...

I suppose it is due to the fact that I am supposed to feel guilty. Well, I do... but not nearly enough to submit myself willingly to daily torture. Voldemort was less cruel.

At least one of the Death Eaters was not named ... Destiny du Maurier. Gah. I loathed the woman. She actually described me as 'strands of silken oil spills smoothing in iridescent waves over pools of deepest, scintillating obsidian.' Then she had offered to share a batch of 'sepia-tainted muffins' with me in her chambers.

I had flatly declined, all the while gagging on my own bile. Which is not, by the way, a pleasant experience.

And they say I need a psychiatrist.

I'm going to bed.

****

4:55 a.m.

... I wonder what she meant by 'oil spills'?

****

5:10 a.m.

Bloody insomnia.

****

5:34 a.m.

I give up. I cannot concentrate, and without concentration, I cannot sleep. I heard Quirrell talking the other day in his classroom. What? I don't have the right to eavesdrop on the new teacher? After all, any incriminating information can be used to fire his arse and allow me to step in and show them how it's really done. Perhaps Albus will allow me to demonstrate hexes on volunteers. Preferably these volunteers will be from Gryffindor house. They are supposedly brave, after all. Perhaps they are stupid as well.

I volunteer Potter.

Anyway.

I was passing by Quirrell's rooms... slowly passing by, mind you, and overheard him talking. I suppose it was to that damned iguana of his. He told me that its name was Herman.

Loon.

Though I cannot understand why he would mention 'death', 'broomstick', and 'never know' to the sorry excuse for a pet. Ah well. This only solidifies my conclusion that he is mad. Or perhaps an evil agent of Voldemort.

Snort. Riiiiiiiiight.

And I'm in love with Sinistra.

****

6:02 a.m.

I just thought that I would clarify the last sentence I wrote. To just look at it without reading it in proper context, it might be taken to mean that I am physically and emotionally in love with that starry-eyed wench of a witch. Which I am not. NOT. If I feel anything at all towards her, it is merely my customary maliciousness.

I meant the words in sarcasm, you see. Like comparing the idea of that quivering idiot being in league with the Dark Lord to the idea of my desiring the dim-witted Astrology professor. (S-T-A-R. Honestly.)

Sarcasm. That was all I meant. Nothing romantic should be read into the last entry.

It was simply sarcastic.

Funny. I always thought that sarcasm was my strong point. Perhaps it simply does not have the effect on paper that it does when speaking. I should stick to sneering, I think.

Me in love with that frizzy-haired, ill-tempered wench? 

Sneer.

****

6:29 a.m.

That didn't have quite the same effect either. Damn.

****

12:45 p.m.

Great Hall

Came for an early lunch before sneaking Albus' 'In Style' magazine back into his office. I wonder what else he has in there.

Wait no, not wonder as in "Ooh, I wonder what magazine I can borrow next."

Just... innocent wondering.

Right.

****

1:48 p.m.

On my way to Albus' office, I unfortunately passed Sinistra. I am slightly worried that she may have seen the magazine I was carrying. Little matter. She was probably too busy pondering the heavens (and their spellings, ha!) to notice.

Though I did notice that she had a copy of the author Gilderoy Lockhart's _Bullshit with Banshees_... or something to that effect. I read one of his works once... and found them disgustingly filled with self-portraits. I think I was nearly blinded by his teeth. By the Mark, no wonder he's one that damned Smile Award so many times... the judges are all so blinded by habitual viewings of his 'pearly whites' that they cannot see a thing save for the bright glare coming from the general direction of the man's mouth.

I'll bet she fancies him.

Probably sleeps with his picture by her bed.

Or under her pillow.

She's probably written him some disgusting love letter, declaring that 'their saccharine romance was written in calligraphic beauty across the venemous radiance of the star-studded night sky.'

Curse me. I'm recalling what was scrawled on the 'casual note' du Maurier left in my teacup. That is, what was written before I tore it to shreds and burned it. While she was watching.

I don't think she got the point.

Dense, that one was.

Maybe I should give Sinistra suggestions for her letter to the pompous author. Give him my regards.

And sympathy.

Don't think that I do not know about her obsession with ex-professor Sandersought. Because oh, I do.

Ha.

****

6:36 p.m.

Sinistra was humming to herself over dinner. I should know, I sit right next to the creature. And she was humming right in my ear. It was rather hard to miss.

The tune sounded strangely like "Spell on my Heart."

I wonder if she likes Celistina Warbeck too.


	4. Wining and Rhyming

Diaries of a Dungeon-Dwelling Moron

__

Discreet Disclosures of Severus S. Snape

Author's Note: Wanted to thank everyone once again for their overwhelming support of this. You have no idea how much I appreciate it. Now on with the Snape-torture.

****

-Part Four-

****

5 September 1991

Chambers

6:45 p.m.

Bloody boring day. No more assaults by breakfast dinery. Nor lunch nor dinner.

Pity.

She must be losing her touch.

Or perhaps she has a new conquest.

I believe Quirrell is single. (If you discount his rather disturbing obsession with Herman, his iguana, as being single.)

Sneer.

That's a laugh. Quirrell and Sinistra. Nearly as amusing as the idea of myself with the dingy old bat. No wait, that would not be amusing. That would be disgusting. VERY disgusting. I'm not going to dwell on that twisted concept any longer than absolutely necessary.

Goodnight.

****

7:31 p.m.

She's probably desperate enough to attempt a relationship with Quirrell, Herman and all.

****

7:34 p.m.

Why am I still dwelling on it?

****

7:36 p.m.

But really, she is absolutely unbear... no. Nevermind. I'm going to bed.

****

7:40 p.m.

She... nothing. Nothing about Sinistra. I don't care about her. I do not dwell on her unbelievably frizzy hair or the pair of mismatched socks she wore this morning or the way her glasses sit on her nose. They are always crooked. Always. It makes me want to reach over and straighten them for her. Doesn't she know they have spells for that sort of thing? It's very... distracting.

I don't know how anyone can concentrate during conversations with her.

I cannot.

****

7:52 p.m.

Because of the glasses, mind you.

Don't get any funny ideas.

****

7:59 p.m.

Sneer.

Does it really look that unintimidating in real life?

...

I'm going to bed. Really.

****

6 September 1991

Teacher's Lounge

9:46 a.m.

I have just been asked by Albus to formulate one of the means to guard the Philosopher's Stone. Perhaps I should involve Potions. Or would that be too... cliché? But I suppose one must do what they are best at, and it is painfully obvious that among all these half-wits I am most skilled at Potions (among many and sordid other talents I have).

But even with all my reputable skill and abilities, I have always been passed over for honours such as this before. Perhaps I am finally getting my due. But what to do?

...

That rhymed.

As the silly Muggle children say, I'm a poet and... by the Mark, I can't even write it without feeling idiotic.

Bah.

****

10:53 a.m.

Wait a moment...

A rhyme!

Potions and a rhyme to go with them.

Sometimes I surprise even myself.

Okay, I lie. I'm not surprised. I always knew I possessed an affinity for the written arts. Poe's works are my favorites. He had a rather delightful morbidity, I must say. I admire him for it. I have even crafted a few of my own rhymes. Observe.

__

When you're head of Slytherin

The points you can deduct

From Ravenclaw or Hufflepuff

In any year you please.

But best of all is Gryffindor

Those sniveling little worms

They think they're all so valiant

But very soon they'll learn.

When they come to Potions class

I'll take away their smiles

And make them cry like children

They'll wish they'd never been born, ha!

That is one of my favorites. There is also the one that I wrote yesterday called "Die, Potter, Die," but... perhaps that can wait for another time. I must set to work now.

Now let me see... the challenge shall be this: The victim... er... individual, will step into a room. Flames will immediately engulf both doorways... different colours for going forwards and back. And then there will be different vials. They will contain different liquids. Hmm. Two would obviously be for going forwards or backwards. The others... nettle wine, which would be useless so that the trespasser would be burned horribly should they try to cross the flames.

I like that idea.

And the others...

...

Poison.

Perfect.

****

5:11 p.m.

Chambers

Plan has been approved by Albus. There will be seven vials, with the aforesaid four liquids contained within. Now to work on the rhyme. There should be something about... danger. Yes, for a fear factor.

__

Your inevitable doom lies waiting, so don't try to escape Danger lies before you, while safety lies behind,

Two of us will help you, whichever you would... (damn, what rhymes? bind? grind? FIND.)_ find,_

One among us seven will let you move ahead,

Another will transport the drinker... to his death! er... back instead,

Two among our number hold only cheap wine... nettle wine,

Three of us are killers...

...What the hell rhymes with wine?

****

5:56 p.m.

Fine. ... no.

Rhine?

Isn't that a river?

****

6:30 p.m.

Tine. That's a part of a fork, I know.

__

Three of us are killers that will leave you impaled upon a tine.

Gah.

****

8:30 p.m

We held the yearly "Which First Year Students Will End Up Together" bet today at the staff meeting. Normally I do not participate in such tomfoolery, but the year I felt inclined to win millions by wagering a hundred Galleons on Harry Potter meeting his doom before he left Hogwarts.

For some reason, the rest of the staff thought I was morbid and wouldn't allow it.

They're just jealous that they didn't think of the idea first.

But before I could point this blatant fact out, Albus decided to open his mouth and bet on myself and Sinistra.

If it wasn't for the fact that I owed my life to that candy-addled fool, I would have made him regret ever putting my name with that wench's in such a manner. I do believe I would rather kiss Destiny du Maurier than that starry-eyed twit.

****

9:03 p.m.

I take that back.

I really, really do.

Shudder.

At least Sinistra does not spout foolish phrases about our love being a rug or some ridiculous nonsense like that.

But honestly. Sinistra and I?

Ha.

As if that will ever happen.

It won't.

And I'm glad of it.

I still cannot believe Albus would pull that ridiculous joke. He was just throwing his money away for a laugh. That's all. He's never serious, that man. I cannot see how he manages to run an entire school.

Sinistra and I.

Ugh.

****

7 September 1991

12:35 p.m.

Great Hall

Wine.

Wine.

It must rhyme with something sensible. Besides tine, which I have definitely ruled out.

Wine.

Sign.

__

Three of us are killers, but we're not labeled with a sign.

I have the urge to throw this book in the mashed potatoes.


	5. Severus Snape, Super Snooper

Diaries of a Dungeon-Dwelling Moron

__

Discreet Disclosures of Severus S. Snape

Author's Note: Apologies for this taking so darn long. I've had a plethora of homework, plus Band Tour and an insane lack of inspiration, which finally struck yesterday in the midst of the boredom of Pre-Calculus. Thank Snape that class is good for something.

Be sure to visit the newest sister fic to this and "Lamentations of a Starry-Eyed Twit." Bohemian Storm is now writing everyone's favorite S/S torture and humor from Herman the Iguana's POV. It's called "It's Not Easy Being Green" and you can find it here. 

Credit goes to Milla for "Hags Home Decorating."

****

-Part Five-

****

8 September 1991

Chambers

7:30 a.m.

Am rather bored and sick of the silly rhyme. Nothing rhymes with wine. I swear on the grave of... someone in my family that nothing else rhymes with wine. Anyway. I have decided to, for posterity's sake, copy down the one work that I am most proud of, the one poem that really shows my inner wants and desires. Thus, here is "Die, Potter, Die."

'Everyone thinks you're perfect

And can do no wrong

Everyone thinks you're number one

And Hogwarts is where you belong

But I beg to differ

I really must disagree

I'd rather you be somewhere else

Far away from me

If you'd be in good old London

That's not far enough

Or even across an ocean

Of waves torrid, rough

You'd still walk the earth in some form

That I could chance to see

But if you were six feet under

That would work for me

"What happened to the Boy-Who-Lived"

People would often ponder

And how they'd ever live without you

I'm sure a few would wonder

But I wouldn't cry, I wouldn't mourn

I wouldn't shed a tear

In fact I'd probably laugh out loud

-That's something rare to hear

So why do you keep hanging on?

I'm asking you now, why

Can't you leave me with my peace

And die, Potter, die.'

Really warms the heart, that one.

****

10:45 a.m.

I have officially decided to conveniently forget about Albus' suggestion that I leave Slatero alone. Instead, I have opted for some... investigation. Yes. Investigation. Like one of those Muggle detectives on the tel... telephone? No. The... telophison. Yes. That's it. I saw one once in Muggle London while on a mission for Voldemort. It was rather fascinating. They had badgers and carried gones- those black, strangely shaped wands that could kill without even saying Avada Kedavra. 

If I were misfortuned enough to be a Muggle, I should like to be a detective.

But anyway. I would be investigating Quirrell. Minus the gone, as I don't quite know where to get one. Ah well. My wand is less messy than a gone. There is something... not right about Quirrell. No normal man wears a turban merely for style. Well.. no normal man wears a turban period. Unless he lives in Arabia or something. But no normal person would willingly reside there either.

And the whole iguana thing. Who keeps an iguana named Herman as a pet?

The man is just strange. Unfortunately, he seems to be stealing my status as Hogwarts Most Elligible (not that I had much competition against the likes of Hagrid, Filch, and Binns). Not that I enjoyed the title, mind you. It was rather silly. Besides, I do not miss any of Hooch's back-breaking love taps. She's currently lavishing her attentions on the stuttering fool. He probably has bruises by now. Ha. Serves him right.

Er... nevermind.

Sinistra also seems affected by him. Instead of annoying me with her ever-sliding glasses, she sat by and spoke to him. Am not jealous. Not at all. Why should I be jealous of a man who can barely say "Good morning, Auriga" in under two minutes? But I cannot understand why she would possibly be interested in him. However, she seems to be. She actually told him that his turban "looked very flattering this morning. Was he wrapping it differently?" Good God. It was sickening and pathetic. Ah well. Better him and his iguana than me. The most she ever asked about my appearance was "Did you shower last month, Severus?" Wench.

Am not jealous. Not.

Am not jealous of Herman either, despite the fact that he pulls of green better than I ever could. Bloody iguana.

****

11:20 a.m.

Really, I'm not jealous.

****

11:24 a.m.

I'm not... ah, damn it. And damn that iguana. Women must like iguanas. That has to be it. It's the only explanation.

I have no iguana.

****

11:33 a.m.

Not that I desire to attract women. Or any woman. Particularly not Auriga.

Definitely not her.

Merlin no.

I don't know why I'm even thinking about her.

****

11:59 a.m.

Where can one get an iguana?

****

12:47 p.m.

That's it. I'm leaving to... investigate Quirrell's classroom. After all, that's where he keeps that blasted iguana. Without it, he will have none of his... allure. Or whatever the bloody hell it is that makes Auriga fawn over him. It's a disgusting display. Which is why it would be... unfortunate... if Herman decided to accidentally escape. And find his way to my quarters. And refuse to leave. He would resort to forcefully restraining himself in a locked cage if necessary. I would help, of course.

The iguana will be mine.

Then we'll see who sits by who at breakfast. I mean, she completely disordered the seating arrangement. I had to sit by that unbearable Flitwick.

Though I refuse to wear a turban. Let her make all the comments she wishes. I _do_ bathe regularly, thank you. Working all day with potions is not exactly the best for one's hair. Not that I would have anyone here to impress anyway. Which is why I don't want the iguana for any... personal reasons. I just want to... make sure that it isn't part of any dark plans to do with Voldemort. It could be... an animagnus. Yes. That's it.

I would need to acquire the iguana to be sure. That's what I'm doing. Yes.

Great Merlin... I'm defending myself to a diar... journal. I don't need to reason with you. You're inanimate. Children reason with their little diaries, give them names, sign "Love, Billy." I do nothing of the kind. And I do not need reasons for what I am about to do.

...

But in case you were wondering, I have several more very good reasons.

So ha.

****

3:01 p.m.

I could be discovered by Voldemort as a spy, be tortured for countless hours, and still die laughing. I could even forgive Potter for his father's existence.

Wait.

Maybe not.

But nonetheless, I doubt that I have ever laughed so hard in my entire existence, save for when I discovered Sinistra's obsession with Sandersought. But this is so much better. 

Sinistra.

Seducing.

I think I shall die.

But before I do, I must write this down so that whoever manages to get past the charms on my journal will be able to tell the world of Sinistra's pathetic attempt at being desirable.

I successfully made it inside Quirrell's classroom without detection. Left the lights off, to be safe. (Those viewings of Muggle detective shows did not go to waste.) The iguana was in the corner. His eyes seemed to glow in the darkness. Or maybe it was just me. I half-expected to be stepping into some sort of trap. Quirrell would jump out of hiding, holding his wand (or maybe a gone), and laugh maniacally (stuttering all the while... b-b-b-bwa-a-a-ha-h-h-h-aha!), and turn me into another iguana or a toad or... or an insect to feed to Herman. 

That was it. That was what he did. He transformed all his rivals for bachelorhood into insects and disposed of them by feeding them to his iguana. I thought the reptile looked rather... overweight. I wondered if an insectoid form of Gilderoy Lockhart was passing through Herman's digestive tract right about then.

One could only hope.

After realizing I was not going to be fed to an iguana, I proceeded to investigate. I looked around the room, peered in drawers, found a copy of "Witches Gone Wild" beneath a dog-eared "Iguanas Weekly," "Love Me, Love My Reptile," and, strangely enough, "Hags Home Decorating." I was beginning to wonder about the magazine choices of my co-workers.

I didn't find much else in his desk drawers and couldn't see any obviously hidden secret compartments. Onto the iguana, then.

After checking the door to be sure no one was approaching, I made my way over to Herman's glass aquarium. The thing stared up at me as I approached and for a moment I wondered if iguanas bit. He looked like he wanted to. But I needed that damn thing. So I reached inside and grabbed the thing around the waist, hoisting it out of the cage and holding it with both hands an arms-length away from me. It wasn't that I was scared, of course. Contamination was my worry. Merlin knew what sort of germs that creature carried.

After a moment of standing there, holding the iguana like an idiot, he turned his head and looked over his shoulder at me and flicked out his tongue. I had to admit that it was almost... for lack of a better word.... cuddly.

I did not just say that.

Anyway, seeing as there was no mortal harm in holding Herman, I cautiously brought him closer to my body. He responded by making a sort of... noise. I took it to be a good sign. Perhaps iguanas weren't that bad after all. And now that I had him, it wouldn't be very long until...

Right then, the door opened and a feminine figure walked in, perched on the desk, and looked around.

Well, I wasn't expecting the iguana thing to work quite that fast.

Then she spoke. "Oh... Slatero."

By the Mark, it was Sinistra. I glared down at the iguana. This was not what I had wanted.

Really. It wasn't.

For a moment, I couldn't say anything. What could I say? I was in Quirrell's office holding his iguana. It was not exactly the best position to find oneself. Was there something wrong with her voice? She sounded as if she had just run 5 kilometers and couldn't properly draw breath. She went on. "I was wondering if we could have... a little chat."

I peered through the darkness at her. And what the hell was on her face?

That was when I realized.

I was about to witness a repeat of the Sandersought incident... personally. She had obviously attempted the use of Muggle cosmetics and had lost. It also seemed that she had tried to brush her bushy hair and had only succeeded in making it nearly twice as big as it had been beforehand. She looked like she had been hit by the Knight Bus. It was grand.

It was too grand. I almost burst into laughter on the spot. And I never, ever laugh. Instead, I bit my lip and nodded, praying she would continue.

She did.

"You know, Slatero... you don't mind if I call you Slatero, do you?" Oh good God. I thought I was going to die. My grip on the iguana tightened as I made an intense effort not to laugh, and the thing squirmed in protest. "...because I feel that I possess that sort of... intimacy with you."

I couldn't keep nodding for the entire conversation. Even an idiot like Quirrell would open his mouth and attempt human conversation. Besides, how hard could it be to stutter like a moron? "Y...y...yes, A...Auriga."

Damn, I was good.

She bought it. "And I feel compelled to tell you that I've never felt such a... chemistry with someone before. Not like this." Was she _purring_? It sounded rather like a cat was being slowly strangled.

"O..oh...oh r...really?" I was going to die. Chemistry? With the onion-wielding iguana lover? She was more mad than I'd first thought.

"Yes." The hands about the proverbial cat's neck were tightening. I almost cringed. "Do you feel that... spark between us, Slatero?"

I was beginning to wonder if she could speak a single sentence without those overly dramatic pauses. She sounded, eerily enough, like Destiny du Maurier. And that is not the image a man wants when he is being (snort) seduced. "Y... yes."

The next sentence she spoke was when I lost all control. "I admit I... fantasize about you sometimes. About us." _Fantasize_? Good _God_. I couldn't take it anymore. A snort of laughter escaped and I froze, hoping she wouldn't notice.

The stupid wench was too far gone to even think twice. And then... then she said a sentence that I never would have wished to hear come from her lips. "Can we make those fantasies come true?" ShudderTwitchShudderSneeeeeer.

I couldn't take it anymore. I was nearly shaking with laughter. I nearly dropped Herman twice and he was now clinging to my arm for all he was worth. I turned to deposit him back in his cage and managed to stutter, "I.... I would... s...surely enjoy attempting, A... Auriga."

I felt a hand on my shoulder and she asked, in a manner than can only be deemed sickening, "Will you kiss me, Slatero?"

I bit my lip. Hard. Think it began to bleed. But it was all worth it. "W...w...well, Auriga, I... I..." I fake-stammered before dropping the stutter and bringing on the sneer full blast. "Have no doubt in my mind that you are the most pathetic seductress I have ever encountered."

Ignore the fact that I had never encountered another seductress before.

I laughed. Out loud. Very out loud. I was almost doubled over and very quickly developing a pain in my side. After all, it's not every day that Severus Snape laughs. But the look on her face was more than priceless. She could have killed me on the spot and I wouldn't have cared. It was pure bliss.

And then the brilliant twit said, "You're not Quirrell."

I was laughing too hard to even manage a proper smirk.

It was the single most perfect event in my life.

I could ruin her with this.

And I would enjoy every single minute of it.

But right now, I believe I need a shower.


	6. Lost and Found, Kindof

Diaries of a Dungeon-Dwelling Moron

__

Discreet Disclosures of Severus S. Snape

Author's Note: Forgive the long, loooooong delay, but I have been horribly affected by writer's block and senior year stress. But now I only have one week left of school and then... blissful summer. Thank Merlin. This chapter's for Nita, since she won't ever let me stop writing this. Siriusly.

And remusly.

****

-Part Six-

****

9 September 1991

Chambers

9:30 a.m.

I do believe that I have forced dear Auriga into hiding. She did not come down to breakfast this morning, and I heard from my House-Elf Tobby (out of the casual conversation one has with one's house-elves, of course) that she had food sent up to her Astrology Tower so that she could "work" without interruption. More like pout without interruption. Honestly, she's such a child sometimes. It's not like I would mention her little incident to her. Oh no. I wouldn't think of doing such a thing to a fellow professor.

(Thankfully, she has been too flustered to even bother asking why I was in Quirrell's office in the first place, and I doubt she could bear facing Quirrell himself to inform him of my intrusion- since she would have to explain why _she_ was there in the first place. Damnably enough, however, I emerged from the event iguana-less. But oh, it was worth it.)

I wonder how long Auriga will keep up her game of hiding. Because it is such a shame to be deprived of her enlightening conversation and witty remarks. I wonder if she has learned to spell 'star' yet. And no, I will never let her live that down. For. As. Long. As. I. Live.

But really, the woman has a ridiculous amount of... mishaps, shall we say? There was the Sandersought incident... which was actually rather a while ago. But this year... there was the 'star' incident and now her attempts at seducing Quirrell... or was it me? or... Quirrell? Damn, this is complicated. Let me see. She was planning on seducing Quirrell, but ended up seducing me while thinking that she was seducing Quirrell while I was pretending to be Quirrell...

Oh dear God.

Forget it.

And remind me never to use the word seducing while referring to Sinistra again.

****

Teachers' Lounge

8:34 p.m.

I came to a decision earlier. With Sinistra obviously infuriated/embarrassed/more-emotionally-unstable-than-usual over the events of yesterday, it would be wise of me to hide all coffee mugs from her view. It's either that or inform Poppy to restock the burn ointment. And I would prefer not to experience again the humiliation of applying burn ointment to certain... areas that shall remain unwritten for posterity.

It just so happened that while I was down here, moving all coffee mugs to a magically charmed and Muggle-y locked cabinet, I heard the Champion Coffee Thrower herself pass by. I thought maybe she had recovered enough to attempt assault and battery again. Fortunately, that was not the case.

It was... strange. I heard her pass by (the woman walks like a bloody elephant, for Merlin's sake! Not at all attractive, if you ask me) and then she began to speak. I wasn't sure who would be in the halls at the time, save for a delinquent student out of class. But after looking out the door, I found that no one was accompanying her.

She was talking to herself.

Now, I've heard that confinement can cause temporary delusions, but my God, she'd only been isolating herself for a day. Not even that.

Then again, she was on the edge of sanity already. I mean, honestly, the woman was on the verge of psychosis (again, I in no way have ever found this attractive. Not even that one time after the punch was... nevermind). It only would take a small push... or a light breeze... or maybe perhaps a feather tap.

But I'd done it. I'd driven the starry-eyed wench mad. I should feel incredibly proud, should I not? Strange... that's not exactly what I'm feeling. And if I didn't know better, I'd say it was guilt.

But no.

No.

It must have been the mint meringue dessert after dinner today. That's enough to turn anyone's stomach, even with the proper Anti-nausea spells. After all, I don't have feelings. None whatsoever. Especially not guilt. 

But anyway.

I watched for a bit as she hurried down the hall. She was clutching something to her... a notebook? I couldn't quite see what it was before she was out of sight. So I returned to my work, thinking she had gone. However, a moment later, I heard her yell some nonsense before her steps (was she running? Why?) passed back by the room. I managed to catch a glimpse of her as she passed, and this time she was sans notebook. Strange.

But then again, we are talking about Sinistra.

****

Chambers

10:00 p.m.

Would you find it completely strange to know that I, Severus S. Snape, Head of Slytherin, most dreaded man at Hogwarts (and most elligible, if only I had that damned iguana), cannot stop smiling?

Considering the circumstances, I would not.

****

10:05

Truth be told, I cannot remember the last time I smiled.

...

It's actually starting to get painful. Believe I will stop now.

That's better.

...

...

Damn, I cannot stop. But really, you can't blame me.

****

10:15

Sinistra's diary is mine.

Yes, that's right. I have the pathetic, childish scribblings of that demented, starry-eyed wench. I'm actually quite surprised that she hasn't drawn little hearts all over the cover with my-Quirrell's (ahem) name inside. That would seem typical of her. Ah well. I'm certain that the inside is full of such immature behavior. But I haven't yet been able to bring myself to open it. Of course I know that she hasn't the wits to curse it or do any such thing, but...

Oh, what the hell am I waiting for? The thing to grow a mouth an invite me in? Not bloody likely, with her magical abilities. The only things that she can do are stare mindlessly at the stars (which she cannot even spell correctly) and write her pathetic innermost thoughts in this ridiculous diary.

Great Merlin... her innermost thoughts? And I have these?

Again I ask, what am I waiting for?

****

10:45 p.m

Hmm. Still have not opened said diary. This is ridiculous. I could completely humiliate her. I could expose her secret desires for Hagrid or something horrid like that. All it would take would be to open the cover. 

And why shouldn't I? It is rightfully mine now, after all. I did not steal it or wrest it away from her. She was the one who disposed of it. She was the one who nearly maimed a House Elf by thrusting the ridiculous notebook at its head. (She does like to attempt murder with household objects, does she not? Rather a strange compulsion. Perhaps I could recommend my psychiatrist to her... er... my _former_ psychiatrist. Albus made me go. I do _not_ have a problem with holding grudges. I have no idea what he is talking about.

...

Bloody pink hair.)

Er, anyway. It is her own fault that she is without her precious notebook. It is her own fault that the House Elf she attacked happened to be my own personal House Elf. It is completely her own fault that I, upon hearing of this event, demanded that the notebook be handed over to my care. Well... maybe that's not exactly her fault. But it certainly isn't mine.

Therefore, I should have no problem in opening it.

****

11:06 p.m.

Dammit.

Morals must be rubbing off on me from the likes of Albus and Minerva. Must pay a call to Lucius before it is too late. That should do the trick.

But until then, it couldn't hurt to just... look at the first page.

****

11:59 p.m.

Am going to bed. Seriously.

****

10 September 1991

Teacher's Lounge

9:15 a.m.

Does she know that I am in possession of her most private and scatter-brained thoughts? She keeps... looking at me.

Though maybe that's just because I have been staring at her for the past fifteen minutes. Why, exactly, I am staring at her is quite beyond me. Maybe it's because her hair is a bit more out-of-hand than usual. Or because her glasses have slid down her nose a total of twelve times since she has walked in the door. Or because I am incredibly paranoid that she _knows_. She could throw another coffee mug at me, you know. The whole plan of locking them away didn't work. Apparently I do not know how to use a Muggle lock.

Will stop looking at her now.

...

There go the glasses again.

You know, you can see her eyes better without the glasses. They are, all things considered, rather... decent. They are amber, I believe, a few shades lighter than her ridiculous hair.

...

What the hell am I doing?!

Not that there's anything else to look at in this room. I suppose we must make do with what we are given.

She's looking at me again. With her amber eyes. 

...Gah.

"Do you... need something, Severus?"

Mental help?

"Nothing," I sneered back at her. "Though I would appreciate it if you would cease looking at me in such a way."

"After you stop staring at me," she retorted. "Obsessive observation can be considered stalking, you know."

"And attempting to seduce a man over ten years your junior can be considered desperate."

Her mouth dropped and I almost flinched. Almost. Her lips formed words, but no sound came out. I noticed, with no small amount of fear, that her fingers were tightening around the coffee mug in her hand. Finally, she set down the mug (and by 'setting down,' I mean with enough force to break it) on the counter and stormed from the room, slamming the door behind her.

Perhaps I was a bit harsh.

Oops.

****

Dungeons

12:20 p.m

This is it. I'm going in. I'm opening her diary.

...

Hmm.

__

Oh yes. And Severus Snape was a complete and total bastard.

Surprise, surprise.

Why, thank you, dear Auriga. I do try.

__

I bet Snape's still sour about that time in fifth year when the Marauders turned his hair pink.

...

Am not.

...

Well, maybe a bit. But... I deserve my bitterness. It's all I have.

...

Great Merlin, I'm pathetic.

__

He's not even a very good kisser, anyway.

Oh, and you are? _Not_.

__

...How Severus attracts all this attention from our more eccentric female colleagues, I'll never know. I mean, God knows I can't see anything even the least bit attractive about him. I can't even begin to understand how anyone could think he was...good-looking.

Someone's in denial, I think.

... I mean Auriga, you realize.

Yes, of course. Right.

__

Severus Snape is not in any way attractive.

Smirk. She wants me.

...

Which does not in any way make me pleased. Quite the opposite, actually.

__

'When Ophiuchus, encircled by the serpent's great coils, rises he renders the forms of snakes innocuous to those born under him. They will receive snakes into the folds of their flowing robes, and will exchange kisses with these poisonous monsters and suffer no harm.'

The Sinistra star.

...

By the Mark, we're written in the stars.

...

What is wrong with the world nowadays, I ask you? Sure, I was a Death Eater and I deserve to be punished, but to be cursed with Sinistra as my star-crossed lover? That's just going a bit far.

I believe I will be sick now.

After, of course, I finish reading this fascinating account of her pathetic, miserable life. Yes. Pathetic and miserable. Not star-crossed. Not even remotely.

I do believe I will check my star chart though. She could be lying. 

Star-crossed. Us.

Ha.

Ha ha.

...

Oh, God.


	7. Falling Head over Nose?

Diaries of a Dungeon-Dwelling Moron

__

Discreet Disclosures of Severus S. Snape

Author's Note: Yes, it's been bloody long enough. Nita convinced me to write again. Otherwise, she would probably attack me. Or something. So, without further ado... here is part seven. Enjoy, won't you?

****

-Part Seven-

12 September 1991

Chambers

4:10 p.m.

Ah. Am back from another thoroughly stimulating day of classes. I sometimes wonder how a full-blooded wizard can be so completely inept. It boggles the mind. Draco Malfoy, on the other hand, is a fine, brilliant example in wizardry. He... oh, what am I doing? I needn't lie about it here. It isn't as if Lucius is going to come waltzing along and read my dia... account of my life. It's hidden quite well, thank you... unlike the diaries of certain starry-eyed twits. So I may say quite candidly that I despise the pompous, self-righteous child, and his whole family.

There. That felt good.

Must be part of the 'expressing your anger' bullshit they talked about.

Hmm. I might need to try that more often.

Speaking of diaries, however... I do believe that I am still in possession of Auriga's ridiculous writings. Those should be good for another laugh.

...

Even if I have read them four times.

But nevermind.

Excuse me while I fetch them.

****

4:18 p.m.

They must be around here somewhere...

I put them on my desk this morning after... er... flipping through them again.

What? They're good nighttime reading. Bloody boring, really. Put me right to sleep. That's why I read them so often. Because I've had trouble sleeping lately, you know. I mean, I suppose I could be conventional and just use a potion. But what am I, a machine? I can't just create potions at the drop of a hat. I have a life you know.

Okay, maybe not. But that's beside the point.

The point is...

...

...

The point is that I cannot find her damn diary.

****

4:30 p.m.

WHERE THE BLOODY HELL IS IT?

****

4:33 p.m.

Breathe, Snape. Just breathe. You're just suffering from withdrawal... or something less pathetic.

...

And you're talking to yourself. But that's okay.

****

4:35 p.m.

__

But where the fuck is it?

****

4:40 p.m.

I mean, honestly. Who in their right mind would find a way to waltz into my _personal_ rooms, go through my private possessions, and not steal any of my things beside a miserable, ratty notebook?

...

Sinistra.

...

That bloody wench was In. My. Rooms.

How DARE she? The nerve! That is breaking and entering. Well, at least entering. She probably got that star-struck, half-blind excuse of a House Elf to let her in. You know, the one that wants to jump her.

...

Shudder.

Twitch.

Sneer.

I did not need that mental picture. Really, I didn't. It's quite disgusting, the way he looks at her. Doesn't he know that interspecies relationships are just... wrong? I mean, look at Quirrell and his bloody iguana. I don't know what he does with that thing, but quite frankly, I don't want to know. I'd prefer that some things just remain secret. But really, Albus should make some rules about abnormal sexual practices with animals and House Elves. Normal wizards, like myself, would sleep a lot better knowing that Aurig... that others were sleeping alone and not with... House Elves.

Er, anyway.

Not that I'm focusing on this or anything.

I'm just... upset.

Yes. Upset.

About her parading around in my quarters like she was the bloody queen of Hogwarts. Which she is far from. And she had _no right_ to be in here. I should go straight to Albus and inform him of this infraction of rules. There are locks on doors for a _reason_, you know. She was the one who threw away the bloody diary in the first place. It isn't my fault that I just... happened upon it. Finders keepers, isn't that what they say?

I miss it.

...

I mean, I miss be able to read it and prove to myself what an absolute twit she is and how I'm glad that I cannot stand to be around her... and her glasses... and her frizzy hair... and her multiple references to me as a bastard. The repetition actually was quite charming... erm... in a completely twit-ish way.

I don't miss her, in case you were wondering. I rather don't have to, as I am unfortunate enough to see her all the bloody time. And her glasses and hair and mismatched socks and... and... and besides, I just saw her this morning. And that one time when we passed each other in the hallway and she stuck out her tongue at me. Which was completely childish and not endearing at all. And...

Oh, God. I do miss her.

What is _wrong_ with me?

****

5:11 p.m.

I mean, really. There is something seriously wrong.

I can't go to dinner in this condition. Merlin knows what I might do. 

****

5:14 p.m.

I am rather hungry though.

****

5:15 p.m.

What could hurt? I'll simply... sneer a lot. Yes, that should throw her off the track.

Sneer.

Ha. Take that.

She'll never know.

And then this temporary insanity will go away, like the last time (and the times before that) and no one will be the wiser. Perfect.

****

Teacher's Lounge

8:50 p.m.

Idiots, all of them. Stupid, blind, ignorant, damnable idiots.

Why in hell would anyone make Harry-bloody-Potter SEEKER for Quidditch?!!! The boy is an accident waiting to happen! Do they want to kill the other students by putting the scarred menace on a broomstick? Oh, naturally, since he's James Potter's son, we should bestow every possible honour on him the moment he glances our way. Let's reward him for breaking the rules about flying when a professor wasn't around. But let's make fun of the poor Slytherin boy who no one likes or would bother to understand. He's different, let's turn his hair pink and make fun of his nose. Sounds like fun.

...

Hmm... I digressed a bit into the past for a moment there. But I'm good now. I'm fine. Perfectly fine.

Bloody Potter.

I hope he falls off his broomstick.

****

9:37 p.m.

I hate him.

...

Obviously.

But still, I wouldn't want anyone to forget.

Oh, for Merlin's sake... good night.

****

13 September 1991

Classroom

10:05 a.m.

Who would send her flowers? Let me correct that. Who in their right mind would send Auriga Sinistra flowers? Hell, I wouldn't do it and I am obviously _not_ in my right mind at the moment.

She can't have a secret lover. Look what she did to Sandersought. She frightens all sane men away. Dammit, Quirrell's probably even scared to go near her, and he doesn't even know that she tried to seduce him/me... you know what I mean.

I miss being sane. I really, really do. Now, I have lost all pleasure in taking points from Harry Potter and Company. Well... almost all. And that's still pretty bad. But all I can think about is her ridiculous hair and those bloody glasses. I swear, I'm going to perform an Invisi-Eye Spell on her (a far better thing than those ridiculous Muggle contacters... retractors... cotants? Whatever.) and buy her a lifetime's supply of Sleekeazy's. Then she wouldn't be so distracting.

She also wouldn't be... her.

Oh my God, what is wrong with me?

Back to the flowers. Not that I'm focusing on them or anything, or that I'm jealous. Besides, they were horrid. If I would happen to send anyone flowers (not that I'm going to send any, and especially not to her. I have plenty of other persons I could send them to. Like... like... um... well... like my mother. I could send flowers to my mother. People do that all the time. It's a special thing to do. Of course, my mother and I haven't spoken in two years. But I could still send them, even if she would throw them in the dust bin the moment she got them.), I would not send anything quite so horrid. The stench was disgusting.

Whoever sent them must have lost his nose in some freak accident or spell gone awry.

Please, refrain from any 'nose' jokes.

Hell, you're a journal. You can't make jokes.

That must be why I like you so much.

That's it. I like you and not Sinistra. Because really, who would like her? Not me. Some poor soul with no nose likes her. He's probably blind too. Or maybe he has glasses. Yes. Wouldn't that be sweet? They probably sit around, with both their glasses sliding down their noses, talking about the stars. How touching. He probably doesn't read her Shakespeare or play her sonatas.

...

Not that anyone would do that, mind you. Certainly not me.

Sneer.

****

Chambers

12:18 p.m.

I'll bet that he sent her flowers today to arrange for some secret rendezvous today. Naturally, it would be during the day, since she teaches in the middle of the bloody night. How unromantic. He's probably on Hogwarts grounds this very minute, pretending to be interested in a place of education for his nonexistent child. Then, casually, Sinistra will happen by on one of her pointless walks around the castle, bump into him and whoever is giving the tour, and offer to take over. And then, just when no one's expecting... it's up to the Astronomy Tower.

Why am I visualizing this? Why why why why why?

Because I'm sick. I'm incurably and hopelessly sick and I need serious help before I do something I'll regret.

****

8:58 p.m.

Too late.

Damn.

****

9:03 p.m.

Oh, I suppose you want to know, do you? You sick, sick... journal?

Well, I won't give you the satisfaction.

But really, I didn't mean to go to her quarters. I didn't. I mean, why would I possibly want to see where she spends her nights? Er... her... nights _and days_. Just because she felt it necessary to violate my personal living area does not mean that I wish to return the favour. Far from it.

Yes.

Right.

****

9:14 p.m.

Fine.

I will tell you.

If only to prove to myself that this was nothing of my own doing. You see, I had it all planned perfectly. I was going to go visit Victoria Vector (Forget the fact that we both hate each other. It could be a secret guise for our unknown love. Snort. Right. What a ridiculous idea. Who would pretend to hate someone just because they secretly wanted to spend the rest of their lives together? Bah.), you know, to take my mind off of Sinistra. Why shouldn't I pay her a call? She is attractive, well-educated, eloquent, tasteful, and... yes, I know I haven't a chance in hell. But still.

Well, on my way to her quarters, I happened to pass by Sinistra's.

...

Okay, so her rooms are completely opposite each other's. I took a wrong turn, alright?

Anyway, as I was walking by, I heard her talking.

I knew at that moment that my suspicions were correct. She was, at that very moment, snogging a handsome, rich wizard... or, you know, the former example of the blundering blind, noseless man. I personally prefer that one. Better to have a slightly oversized (shut up, just... oh, right. Journal.) nose than none at all.

I don't quite know what came over me. But before I knew what was happening, I had raised my hand and knocked on the door. I rather don't know what I expected to find. Her, half-dressed, wrapped in a scandalous embrace with the noseless son-of-a-bitch (who was beginning to look, in my mind, more and more like Gilderoy Lockhart), her cheeks flushed, her hair down...

Oh, God, I need a cold shower.

Or a drink.

Or... something.

Needless to say, I did not find her in a compromising position. She arrived at the door, fully dressed, at which moment I swooped inside in a very commanding manner (sneer and all, which was back up to its usual surliness after a brief moment of weakness during the flowers incident) in order to catch the bastard before he made his getaway.

... He hides well, that one.

And she tried to frighten me away before I found him, by threatening me with... coffee mugs.

I wasn't scared, of course. Oh, no. I mean, why would I be scared of a... coffee mug? The entire concept is absurd. But I decided to indulge her. But oh, I showed her. I left her with quite the biting remark.

I said, and I quote, "But let me warn you, Auriga, this man is bound to come to his senses sooner or later. Not everyone puts up with you as well as I do."

So ha.

****

9:46 p.m.

Okay, so maybe the statement didn't come out quite the way I intended. That last little part slipped out at the end. I didn't mean to say it.

Really.

It's not like I want to put up with her.

I just... do.

Oh, who am I kidding? I don't know how I manage to fool bloody Voldemort if I can't even convince a journal that I do not have this rather... unhealthy... condition.

Yes, a condition.

What did you think I was going to call it, hmm? Are you insinuating something?

Ten points from...

Oh, bloody hell. 


	8. A Fond Attatchment to Sweaters

Diaries of a Dungeon-Dwelling Moron

__

Discreet Disclosures of Severus S. Snape

Author's Note: Well, well, well. It's been how long since my last update? I apologize sooooo, so much. I've been so busy with school, and then the whole CougerNet fiasco where I didn't have internet for like... a month. *grumble grumble* And then these silly professors actually expect me to do homework and show up to classes. It's madness! So, after all the angry/begging/pleading e-mails I received, I decided that I'd better write some more before you all decide to attack me ala the house elves in Lamentations. And that would just be bad. So I tried. It didn't work so well. But Nita helped! We used The System (Because The System works, The System called... The S-Y-S-T-E-MMMM!! Er... right then.) And I finally got back into full-on Snape Mode, which can be a very frightening place to be if you don't know how to handle all the complex emotions and denial. And so, slowly but surely, and then rather quickly and freakishly, Diaries came back to life. My baby. My never-ending baby of a story that's growing into quite the monster. But oh well. I love it so.

****

-Part Eight-

****

14 September 1991

Chambers

7:31 a.m.

...You don't think that Auriga got the wrong idea from what I said the other night, do you? She couldn't possibly thing that I am... _interested_ in her... romantically. Of course, I suppose it is only natural. You know, it's getting worse. Instead of merely Hooch and Sinistra... Madame Pomfrey asked me to come by after classes to deliver some potions. And you know what that means. I only wish I didn't. But I do.

Oh, yes, I do.

The first time, I thought nothing of it. I merely stopped by and dropped off the potions she'd asked for. Nothing out of the ordinary happened... at first. But she kept... talking to me. And not just about potions and remedies, like one would expect. She began to ask about my personal life. Thankfully, I managed to get away with the excuse of my next class. The next time, I was not so lucky. She kept asking about my health (surprise, surprise, coming from the school nurse). And then... she asked, "Aren't the dungeons uncomfortably cold for you, Severus?"

"Um... not... particularly."

"Oh, naturally it wouldn't be that bad now, but what about..." (Right about now, she seemed to get something in her eye, for she kept blinking.) "... at night?"

I must admit, I did not even fathom where she was heading with this. "Not particularly," I repeated.

"You know, if you are, I could provide something to... warm you up... Severus."

"I can mix my own Warming Potions, thank you Pomfrey."

She giggled. Actually giggled! A grown woman... giggling. Do you see what I do to women? It's madness. I don't know what it is about me that has this... effect... but I wish I could make it stop. Anyway, continuing on.

This is rather embarrassing. After her girlish fit of... giggles, she moved closer, looking up at me (with something in her eye again... you'd think that being a nurse would lend something to knowledge for removing whatever was bothering her vision), and said, "I wasn't talking about a potion... (cringe, criiiiiiinge) ..."

Oh, I cannot write this. It's too much.

I just can't do it.

I won't.

I refuse.

I have the right not to share every intimate detail of my personal life here, you know. Just because I have so far... that means nothing!

Oh, fine.

She called me... 

Ahem.

"Sevvie."

Snee...

Oh, God. Sometimes, I want to cry.

And I do nothing to bring this on, you realize. I am not to blame here. Which is why there is no way that Sinistra could think that I had romantic feelings for her. Because I don't. And I have never given any signs of it. The entire idea is ridiculous. And sickening. I'm sickened just thinking of it. She would never be so batty as to think...

Then again, she is Sinistra. I wouldn't be surprised if she's been harbouring repressed emotions about me ever since that one night... that one horrible night, rather, where we both were completely pissed and happened to... have a sort of romantic interaction. Don't forget that I was completely out of my mind with drink and had little to no idea what I was doing. No, I take that back. I had no idea what I was doing. If I had, I certainly wouldn't have enjoyed kissing her like I... wait. No. I didn't enjoy it. Not really. I only thought I did because I was completely drunk. I've certainly gotten over that little mishap and have moved on. (Okay, so I haven't actually 'moved on' as that implies that I have another romantic interest at the moment, but you know what I mean. I have no feelings for Auriga Sinistra whatsoever. None.) Now her, on the other hand. She has certainly not moved on. (Come on, she's practically begging for me by trying to throw herself into a relationship with Quirrell, just to prove that she doesn't need me.) It's quite clear.

She wants me.

It's the only explan...

...

Someone at the door.

Bloody early.

...

Ah, it's Draco. Wonderful. I wonder what...

...

****

WHAT?!!?

****

7:38 a.m.

...

...

**__**

NSDFHDKFRAXXLEKSDFLKDFKCKDDFKS!

...

__

I must avenge this act of evil!

****

7:48 a.m.

Someone will pay.

They will.

I'll be bloody well sure of it, mark my words.

I just... dammit... he... how... how could... complete disregard... he... _Merlin's beard_! 

They'll pay. And when they do, I'll be certain that Potter never lays hand on a Nimbus 2000 for the rest of his miserable life. Ever.

And when he's dying, I'll be there, holding the bloody broom and mocking him.

...

Maybe I'm taking this a bit far. I mean, honestly. So Minerva used funds to buy Harry Potter, a first year, one of the finest brooms on the market today so that he can play Quidditch for Gryffindor. So they purposely did not tell me. I don't know why they would conveniently leave that out of our everyday conversations. It isn't like I'd overreact or anything irrational like that.

...

Certainly not.

...

Now, where the hell is Minerva so I can curse her into... no, nevermind spells. I'm simply going to wring her neck.

...

It'll be so much more satisfying that way.

Well, she'd be in teacher's lounge at this hour, so I do believe I will be paying her a little... visit. Then we'll see what she has to say for herself. She daren't oppose my wrath. I'll expose her for what she is!

...

What is she, you ask?

Well, isn't it painfully obvious? She's biased! She'd do anything for her precious house to win! Even cheat! I mean, honestly, how low can you get? What complete slimeball would be so...

...

Oh, right.

...

Shut up.

But... I have an image to keep up here! I'm Severus S. Snape, Head of Slytherin. I have to be evil and sinister and biased about my own students... even when most of them are complete idiots, or completely spoiled. Or both.

Take, if you will, Draco Malfoy. It was through this ridiculous child that I was forced to discover that Potter (Sneeeeer.) had acquired a Nimbus 2000 for no apparent reason whatsoever. (I saw nothing wrong with him simply using his own bloody broom... if he's so wonderful, he should be able to make do, wouldn't you think?) The whiny brat comes in here and tells me that Potter got a Nimbus 2000, just right out of the blue! No warning... no, 'Are you sitting down, Professor?' 'Would you like me to bring Professor Sinistra in to snog... er, take out your anger on?' Nothing! Just... announces it, like it's the bloody morning news.

Well, it's not! This is a serious infraction, and it is now my civic duty to... do something about it!

This could get messy. Don't wait up.

****

7:53 a.m.

And yes, I know you're a diar...journal and that you can't wait up, per se.

It was a figure of speech, dammit.

Leave me alone.

****

7:55 a.m.

... Don't say anything. Just... don't.

...

You know what I mean.

...

Gah!

****

8:20 a.m.

...

I have never been so insulted in my entire life.

...

Except for that one incident. You know the one. We needn't mention it here.

Again.

Ahem. Anyway. Insulted. Right. There I was, storming into the teacher's lounge, and demanding (quite civilly, mind you) what was going on, and she has to be... childish. She implied, thinking it hilarious, I am sure, that we were 'over'... excuse me, _through_. Which implies that we were... not through... at one point in time.

I'm laughing, really.

I would sooner kiss Sinistra.

Oh wait, I've already done that. Joy.

... Why do I keep mentioning that? You'd think I was... obsessed with the incident or something. Which I am not. At all. More of... repulsed by it. And repulsed by Sinistra. And her hair... and her... glasses. That keep... falling down. 

...

...

...

Erm. Right. Anyway. Minerva. She's completely ridiculous, using sarcasm and her oh-so-sharp _wit_ to avoid the question. Which is... I forget. But anyway. And of course, Victoria Vector, was there, with her annoying presence and her annoying comments and sitting by Sinistra... annoyingly.

The maturity level of the room was far too low for my tastes, so I left in a completely dignified manner. I did not curse Vector's hair to develop snarls whenever she brushes it or give a rude gesture to Minerva when she wasn't looking. None of that. That would be stooping to their level, and that is something I would never reduce myself to.

Though it was rather soothing to hear Vector scream as I walked down the hall.

But that's completely irrelevant.

I cannot believe that Minerva gave that... pathetic excuse for a Gryffindor a Nimbus 2000. Gave! Like it was Muggle sweets or some other sort of worthless things. You don't see me giving Marcus Flint the latest in Quidditch merchandise, do you? No.

Of course, I highly doubt anyone would willingly donate money to give that imbecile anything, so that's rather beside the point...

Why must I be surrounded by idiots wherever I go?

Perhaps I should just stay in my chambers and never come out. Actually, that's not a bad idea. It's not like my Potions students learn anything anyway, since they are, as I stated, idiots. Except for that Hermione Granger, that is. But she's just... freakish like that. The girl has probably read every single Potions book the library has to offer, plus any restricted ones she could get her greedy hands on. She could teach the bloody class.

That's not such a bad idea either. I could just have her teach the class, and I could remain locked here... away from all of... them. I could retain my sanity, what's left of it, and be rid of them forever! HA! Hahaha! Ha...

...

Ha.

... Do you think they'd even notice I was gone?

...

Any of them?

... Would you miss me?

Wait.

You're not... real.

Right. I knew that. Really. I am simply distraught. Over... Potter.

Sneer.

Ah, there we go. All it took was the thought of that blasted Potter to get me back on track. Good to know the boy's good for something. He'd noticed I was gone, for sure, simply because there would be no one to hold sway over his wild, irresponsible actions. But... that would be it. No one else would notice. Oh, sure, they'll say every so often, "Didn't something horrible and disgusting used to lurk around the dungeons?" And everyone will shudder in recognition. And then Quirrell will probably take my place as Slytherin Head of House, since he took my position as Defense Against the Dark Arts professor... and then the entire House will deteriorate into a bunch of blithering dunderheads. They'll be known as the Stuttering Slytherins and will have an iguana as their new mascot.

Good God, I can see it now.

It'll be horrible. Merlin... who would have known what would happen if I weren't here. Things would be atrocious. Thank the powers I'm here. As much as they'll try to be rid of me, I simply won't go. I won't give in to Slatero. Never! He and his bloody iguana will never have Sinistra... er... Slytherin House. That's what I meant. An innocent mistake. I confuse my 's' words a lot. Simple slip of the tongue... pen, whatever. Definitely not a Freudian slip. Though I never really understood what the bloke was talking about, what with dreams and slips and everything. My psychiatrist didn't hold with his methods anyway.

I do miss him sometimes. But I'm completely cured, so why go back, right? I don't need to go back. I won't be wasting my money just to keep in touch with someone who only cares about my problems because I pay him. I could get someone else to listen to me for free. Just because they want to.

Like...

...

Um.

Well, it's rather hard to name someone right off the top of my head, you know. These things take time and careful consideration. I mean, I didn't say I'd give a specific name, alright? I do have friends.

Or at least a journal.

Yay.

****

9:02 a.m.

No offense meant by that, of course.

****

9:03 a.m.

I need to get out of here. I think we've both discovered through this little time together that it is best if I remain in the public eye.

Oh, the sacrifices I make.

****

10:10 a.m.

This is what happens when I leave my room.

I think I need a shower.

Erm. I'll be right back then.

****

10:39 a.m.

I really don't know why people say I should shower more. I really think it's quite a frequent occurrence around here, don't you? I may run out of cold water soon.

Honestly, though, things would have been so much easier today if I would have merely stayed in my room, according to my previous idea. But noooooo, I had to go out. Ridiculous thing, that socializing. Highly overrated. And I don't recommend it at all. I can get you into... strange situations. Ones that involve Sinistra. 

As usual.

All I did was take an innocent walk, to check up on what I'd missed during my temporary hermitage in my quarters, to catch Potter at some mischief or another and have an excuse to break his broom, to see if Albus had any new magazines since last nigh... week.

(Note to self: Subscribe to Magical Mates for the Socially Secluded. Looks rather interesting... um, for the sake of laughing at the poor wretches who actually submit themselves to such idioticy. Saw a rather interesting article about star-crossed... I mean... I thought of showing to Sinistra. She certainly needs some help in the romantic aspect of her life. 

... 

Not like I should be talking.

But I always have Madame Pomfrey.

Erm.)

But back to the actual story at hand. So, as I was innocently wandering the castle I happened to go past Auriga's room again. Strange how that always seems to happen on my little walks. Must be the staircases changing, and such. Anyway, I wouldn't have thought anything of it, had I not heard her... oh, how to put it delicately?... screaming in ecstasy.

That's not a thing one hears at nine o'clock in the morning. Well, not usually. There are occasions like holidays and such... but this was definitely not one of them. As for myself, I was beginning to wonder why I always happened to wander by at the most incovenient times. It's a gift, I tell you, one that I am burdened by.

But honestly! Nine in the morning! And screaming her bloody lungs out so that any poor child happening by would be subject to a most scarring experience. I pity them.

I pity myself.

More than usual.

She kept yelling things like "Get off me!" and "What if someone sees us?" like she didn't want to be caught. But I knew from her voice that she didn't mean it. She was enjoying it quite thoroughly.

Well.

I was going to put a stop to that.

I very kindly informed her of the hour of the morning, you know, in case she had forgotten. After all, her door was unlocked. She was practically inviting me in. She probably planned it. You know, so I would see her in the throes of passion and automatically want and need her.

She threw her sweater at me.

...

Close enough.

So, there I stood, holding her sweater, for once at a complete loss as for what to say. And she has the gall to order me out. "I'm busy," she said.

Ha. Like I couldn't see that. Busy getting undressed for her mystery lover. I had finally managed to notice that there was no one else in the room with her... except... Quirrell's iguana. It was on the bed. Grinning at me like... like he knew, the smug green little bastard. I swear he winked at me. (speaking of which, the iguana is a male... so why does it have a pink collar? Obviously Slatero has some larger issues at hand than his choice in headwear.) But I knew, then. The iguana was involved. "Oh, _God_, Auriga, " I said. "Don't tell me Quirrell's talked you into using that iguana in your strange sexual practices."

And she tried to deny it, the cheeky wench. "Severus!" she cried, nearly impairing my hearing. After that, I don't exactly remember what she said. But the fact that I was holding her shirt became more than a little more apparent, if you, er, know what I mean.

Then she was yelling again, and my gaze snapped... up again. "Oh, God, stop it! Didn't anyone ever teach you about eye contact?" She attempted to cover herself with a blanket. Ha. Like I hadn't seen everything already. Well, not everything, but... a lot more than I'd seen before. Which is... bad. Right. Bad. As she grabbed a blanket, the bloody iguana fell off onto the floor. I found it very hard not to laugh. Die, iguana, die. (Ooh, new poem idea?)

The humour reinspired my biting, witty sarcasm. Ha. I knew I still had it. "Didn't anyone ever teach you about clothing? Oh, wait - you're busy throwing it at me."

Snape:1

Sinistra: 0

Ha.

But anyway. There was a man in here. I knew it. Herman, as evil as the diabolical thing is, could not make Auriga moan like she was doing. I know her too well... but not... _too_ well, mind you. Though I have now seen her shirtless. Ha again. Though I don't know why I said 'ha' to that. But oh well.

She tried to deny it, stammering and stuttering as much as Quirrell himself. How could I have had any doubts that they were together? The evidence is all there!

To seal the deal, Quirrell finally decided to show himself, like the man he isn't. And then he actually attempted to pretend that he was honestly just there for that... thign.

Thign? Er... thing. See, I'm so upset I cannot even write correctly! This was an emotionally distressing experience! Honestly, you can't tell me that he would walk into a room where Auriga was shirtless and make a beeline for a bloody lizard without even noticing, _unless he meant to do it_. That would take an extreme amount of willpower not to look at her... shirtless... and even he cannot be that obsessed with the iguana. ... That would just be creepy. And wrong in so many ways.

"A . . . Auriga . . . S . . . s . . . s . . . Severus, d . . . didn't mean to . . . disturb."

Oh, ha. Like I believe that. And Herman can write.

"You're not disturbing anything!" claimed Sinistra, looking like she wanted to perform an Unforgivable on herself. Or on me, since I was the one disturbing her intimate night with the turban freak. Ugh.

"Likewise, Quirrell," I said, making certain he knew that I knew what he was up to.

"What are you doing here?" she asked him. She actually asked him that!

Right, you're going to fool me, you ridiculous twit.

"I . . . I knew Herman was going to be here," he returned. Yes, you're psychic now. Try psycho. He takes my job, he takes my starry-eyed twit, and now he takes my god-dammed psychosis.

Continuing on. "And you knew that . . . how?" she asked, innocently, as if she didn't know why the t-h-i-n-g (there we go... thign.) was in her room, on her _bed_.

"He l . . . left me a n . . . note."

__

I knew it! Er, I mean... iguanas can't write. Rot and nonsense.

With that enlightening statement, the big bad DADA teacher wandered out of the room, muttering something about 'an iguana may love a witch, but I'd be forced to kill her out of spite' or something like that. I couldn't' really quite make it out. Not that I cared.

And... I was still holding her sweater. Why? I'm not quite sure, really. But it was... soft and kindof... smelled like her. I resisted the urge to smell it, but was staring at it rather a lot. She finally noticed. Damn.

"Oh, give me that!"

She grabbed the shirt from me, but I didn't, er, let go in time as she pulled on it. Somehow, I ended up on the bed, on top of her, still holding the bloody sweater. Only, I was holding her too. Kindof. In a weird, sprawled-awkwardly-on-a-bed-in-a-way-that-should-only-be-reserved-for marriage way. I looked down, realizing how close she was and how much I was lying on top of her. I now have a very good idea of what witches wear under their robes. Not that I was looking. 

Er... intentionally. 

This time.

Oh, God. Breathe, Snape, breathe.

I need a drink.

And then, since the bloody door was still open, that strange house elf that's always singing Muggle sex songs happened to come in. Why, I didn't know. But I soon found out.

Apparently, the creature is completely head-over-heels for Auriga. He cried, and I quote, "Miss Auriga Miss! Wimmy was thinking we is having something between us! Wimmy was _wrong_!"

Which was just great in itself. But then she immediately replied as he fled the room in pathetic tears, "Wait, Wimmy, it's not what it looks like!"

I died.

Well, not literally, naturally, otherwise it would be rather hard for me to be writing this. I've never yet seen a ghost who keeps a diary. A journal, either.

But I was nearly crying from the laughter.

I suppose, thinking back, that it must have been a disturbing sight... me howling with unnatural laughter on Auriga's bed while she simply stared at me, still, er, shirtless.

The moment was kindof ruined when Vector walked by and saw us (since the house elf didn't have the decency to shut the bloody door as he made his distraught exit). Naturally, the wench came to the conclusion that we were _involved_. Because, you know, there's absolutely no other reason a man would be in bed with a half-dressed woman. Honestly.

So, now this rumour will be spread around Hogwarts like wildfire. Auriga found in bed with Potions Master. Wonderful. It'll completely taint my horrible bastard exterior.

Damn.

... I just realized something.

Her sweater is sitting beside my journal. Oops.


	9. Swearing Off Sinistra

Diaries of a Dungeon-Dwelling Moron  
  
_Discreet Disclosures of Severus S. Snape_

Author's Note: Erm. Hi. I'm not dead. And... surprise, surprise, neither is Diaries. It lives! If only because of phoenixorder and the wonderful S/S going on over there, where I play Snape and get inspiration for Diaries. And, it helps having Nita (She's A Star, mad goddess author of Lamentations) bug me constantly about writing. And... all the reviews and e- mails asking and begging for updates and yeah. I was slightly afraid you were all going to attack in true house elf manner.  
  
But look! A new chapter! And perhaps, I shall write another one before another 11 months passes. And maybe one day I'll catch up with Nita. But I doubt it. I've been very into the original fic writing thing, and occasionally have a life (gasp!) I know, I know. Lives are overrated. And then school will start and I will have no time again and... meep. I apologize. I'll try to write more! I really will!  
  
... please don't hurt me.

**-Part Nine-  
  
14 September 1991  
  
Chambers  
  
11:54 p.m.**

Okay. So I accidentally took her sweater back to my room. That's not a crime. Well... I suppose one could classify it as stealing, but it wasn't. I swear, it wasn't stealing. It's not like I... want her sweater, like I took it for any subconscious sexual reason.  
  
Because I didn't.  
  
I was merely distracted.  
  
**11:57 p.m.**  
  
Who wouldn't have been distracted?  
  
I mean, I realize we are talking about Auriga Sinistra, the battiest excuse for a professor since Destiny du Maurier (TwitchShudderSneer), but she is still a woman (at least, I'm fairly certain of this), and her shirt was off.  
  
What was I supposed to do?  
  
**11:59 p.m.**  
  
Of course, I suppose 'take her sweater' isn't the first answer that would pop into most sane persons' heads.  
  
But after a night of discovering Sinistra's list of paramours includes the turbaned wonder, his creepy green sex toy of an iguana, and a deranged House-elf, who could really be blamed for losing their head a bit?  
  
Personally, any of those alone would be enough to do me in.  
  
**12:01 a.m.  
**  
All those years with the Dark Lord have made me strong.  
  
**12:02 a.m.  
**  
Unfortunately, I seemed to have cracked.  
  
Damn House-elf. He did me in. Quirrell and the iguana I could have handled. But a House-elf?  
  
The Dark Lord himself would have cracked.  
  
**12:04 a.m.**  
  
Not to say that He was quite right in the head to begin with.  
  
**12:05 a.m.**  
  
I'm going to bed.  
  
**12:27 a.m.  
**  
Dammit. Her sweater is still sitting on my desk.  
  
**12:30 a.m.**  
  
Well, it's too late to take it back now. Besides, I do not think it would be the best idea in the world to show up at Auriga's door at this time of night. Especially considering the most unfortunate events of the night.  
  
**12:32 a.m.**  
  
Besides, who knows who's in there with her now.  
  
**12:33 a.m.  
**  
Probably Hagrid.  
  
**12:35 a.m.**  
  
Heh. Hagrid.  
  
**12:36 a.m.**  
  
... ugh.  
  
**15 September 1991  
  
Chambers  
  
7:27 a.m.**  
  
Damn. Have now been plagued all night by dreams... no, by nightmares of Hagrid wearing Sinistra's pink sweater.  
  
**7:31 a.m.**  
  
I suppose I should take her sweater back today.  
  
But... what, precisely, am I supposed to say? "I'm sorry, but this seems to have Apparated into my quarters. Please control your clothing from now on."  
  
... maybe not.  
  
"I mistook this for my sweater. Unfortunately, yours seems to be too big."  
  
Smart idea. Claim you own pink sweaters and call an already dangerously unbalanced woman overweight. No, thank you.  
  
Maybe I can just throw open her door, hurl the blasted shirt at her, and then stalk away.  
  
Perfect.  
  
... of course, we saw what happened the last time I simply entered her rooms. I'd probably end up with more than her shirt thrown in my face.  
  
Shudder.  
  
Maybe... maybe she won't notice that it's missing. You know how women are... they have so many clothes that they never notice if you happen to walk off with a particularly soft pink sweater and leave it lying on your desk for a few days.  
  
Though somehow I doubt Auriga is quite the clothes-horse her friend Vector is.  
  
I'll simply... throw it out and claim ignorance of the whole situation. What is she going to do, burst into my classroom and demand, in a spectacularly embarrassing display, the return of her sweater?  
  
... I think not.  
  
Perhaps this could use a bit more thought. She probably hasn't even thought about it. She'll most likely be too busy dealing with her new little nickname.  
  
Luckily, I, being the man in the situation (well, one of them, at least), will be above such reproof. Lovely little double-standard, isn't it? Besides, I'm Severus S. Snape, Potions Master and Dreaded Evil Bastard of Hogwarts. No one even dares look at me cross-eyed. Well, except Albus. But I'm planning on avoiding him for the next few days to prevent any unwanted commentary.  
  
Ah, an owl has just arrived.  
  
**8:03 a.m.**  
  
Damn him.  
  
**8:04 a.m.  
**  
Of all the unbelievable nerve.  
  
**8:05 a.m.**  
  
He sent me... a clipping from The Daily Prophet. An advertisement for "Couples Counseling. What to do when you catch your loved one casting her spell over another man."  
  
I hate him.  
  
**8:10 a.m.**  
  
And, to specify, Auriga Sinistra is most certainly not my loved one. Or... any kind of one. She's not even a one to me. She's more like a .25, really.  
  
**8:11. a.m.  
**  
Maybe a .5, on her better days.  
  
**8:12 a.m.  
**  
Perhaps a .75, just to be fair.  
  
**8:13 a.m.**  
  
Why am I even discussing this?  
  
**8:14 a.m.**  
  
Shut up.  
  
**8:15 a.m.**  
  
Isn't there a disorder where one writes compulsively, with no real reason or purpose? They just keep writing every single little ridiculous thing that comes into their mind, just because they have to. It's a compulsive thing, like washing one's hands too many times or wanting to push up Auriga's glasses every time they slip down her nose. No. Not like that. Not like that at all. Because that is simply an annoyance that must be corrected. Not a compulsion. And doesn't she know that they have spells for that sort of thing? It's so bloody distracting at the breakfast table, when one is trying to glower menacingly at her and forget the fact that he has her pink sweater sitting on his desk, and then her glasses slide down her nose while she's eating... and... not that I would know, of course. Because I don't. Except for the fact that her sweater is still sitting on my desk. And her glasses were sliding down her nose at breakfast this morning. But that's really none of my concern. Because I am above such petty things. I... cannot stop writing.  
  
... dear God.  
  
I need help.  
  
**Teacher's Lounge  
  
12:05 p.m.**  
  
Hmm. Did not realize that I had brought this with me. Surely it must have just been with my books and I didn't bring it along, by any means, in case I felt the need to write.  
  
Because that's not what I'm doing now.  
  
**12:09 p.m.**  
  
I don't need to write in here.  
  
**12:10 p.m.  
**  
In fact, I could simply not write in here for the rest of the day.  
  
Easy.  
  
**12:11 p.m.**  
  
I have quite the busy schedule, you know. No time for such petty trivial things like journal-writing.  
  
**12:13 p.m.**  
  
Right. Not writing.  
  
**12:14 p.m.**  
  
Starting now.  
  
**5:36 p.m.  
**  
So far, so good. Have not written in my dia... in here all day, despite what happened in class with Potter toda...  
  
**5:37 p.m.  
**  
Dammit.  
  
**16 September 1991  
  
Classroom  
  
3:21 p.m.**  
  
It has been... ten hours and sixteen minutes since my last entry. And of course, I didn't keep coming back to the ridiculous notebook, open it, and stare at it, envisioning what I could be writing, picking up my pen every other minute before putting it down again...  
  
Because that would be unhealthy.  
  
No, indeed. I had a very productive day of... well... teaching classes. And then there was lunch. And some time well-spent stalking the halls of Hogwarts looking for unsuspecting Gryffindors... er... students. And then dinner. And some well-timed sneering. And smirking over the fact that Auriga Sinistra is a ridiculous twit of a woman with a reputation as big as her hair. And honestly, if she would choose Quirrell and his freak iguana over someone like me, then she deserves every ounce of humiliation she may receive.  
  
**3:39 p.m.  
**  
Not that I wanted her to choose me.  
  
Ever.  
  
Because I don't. At all. The very idea is horror-inducing. Myself and Sinistra. Ha.  
  
... haven't we been over this topic before?  
  
The idea is absurd.  
  
I would never in a million years. Not if she were the last living woman on earth. Not even if I had to choose between her and Destiny du Maurier. Because I would kill myself first.  
  
Auriga Sinistra is... is... well...  
  
Hmm.  
  
Auriga Sinistra is beneath me. Yes. Beneath me.  
  
**3:53 p.m.  
**  
That was not meant in any sexual positioning terms. Because... shudder.  
  
I intended it as in regards to worth. She is not at my standard. Not one bit. She is starry-eyed and flighty and unkempt and foolish and... many other things, I am certain.  
  
And she drives one mad. She is the reason, I have decided, that I have to write in this thing anyway. It's pathetic how many times her name appears in these pages. One would almost think I were in love with her, were they not me and therefore they would not know better. Because I'm not. Ha. I would sooner kiss Quirrell's iguana.  
  
... though the disgusting thing would probably bite me.  
  
She has somehow gotten inside my head, is the plain facts. She has gotten inside my head and done things to me that are not at all pleasant.  
  
Never before have I been apt to steal pink sweaters or to be seduced by women trying to seduce someone else. It's all her fault.  
  
And I will no longer subject myself to it.  
  
As of now, Auriga Sinistra will no longer cause me to commit the ridiculous. She will no longer consume the pages of my journal. Hell, I may no longer need a journal. My life will return to its normal, mundane existence of teaching morons and hating Harry Potter and being a general bastard to all. There will be nothing to write about, and I will be perfectly content with that.  
  
Auriga Sinistra will be beneath me, from now on.  
  
**4:15 p.m.**  
  
Still not sexually.


End file.
